commando knife from her boot sheath and wrapped
N'Trol's fingers around the haft. "Take it and go kill those guards. Or we'll do it ourselves and leave your bodies on the duraplast."
"You've persuaded me," he said, slipping off to the left, where the module stacks ended. Snapping shut the weather flap on his holster and slipping the knife blade up his sleeve, N'Trol stepped from behind the stacks and into the light, walking purposefully toward the boarding ramp and the two gray-uniformed sentries.
"Evening," he said as the guards brought their rifles up to order arms.
"Halt," said the corporal. "Who goes?"
N'Trol halted. "Commander N'Trol, Engineer, Implacable," he said, gambling that these two hadn't been told about the arrests. It wasn't likely, given Fleet's mania for security.
"Advance and be recognized," said the corporal.
N'Trol closed the distance between himself and the foot of the ramp, stopping an arm's length from the corporal. The sentry was young—a kid, really—almost old enough to shave. "Here to do some tinkering," said N'Trol easily.
The corporal frowned. "Sorry, sir. We've no orders to admit ..."
N'Trol sucker-kicked him, knee to the groin, then hit him on the chin with the knife pommel as the kid doubled over. The soldier folded silently, crumpling to the landing field.
The private tried to bring the big M32 around, but N'Trol grabbed the weapon's stock with one hand and pressed the knife blade against his throat with the other. "Drop it or die," he said. He'd no idea what he'd do if the other continued to struggle—fortunately, the trooper dropped the M32.
"Turn around," said the engineer.
As the private turned, N'Trol brought the pommel down behind the soldier's right ear. He collapsed as silently as the corporal.
"Well and mercifully done, Mr. N'Trol," A'Tir said as her corsairs charged across the landing field and up into the ship, Implacable's crew following. "You may board."
Last one in but for A'Tir, he'd stopped to look at the distant flames of the Tower and the circling firecraft, when two blaster shots sent him whirling, looking down to where A'Tir stood, holstering her blaster beside the dead sentries.
Gripping the safety rail in white-knuckled fury, N'Trol waited for A'Tir to reach him. If he'd been beside her when she fired, he knew he'd have broken her slim neck. "Why?" he demanded coldly when she appeared, his emotions under control.
"Why?" She smiled. "Why, because you wanted them to live, Engineer. So I wanted them dead. Now check your engines and prepare to lift ship, mister."
7
A hexagonal honeycomb of a building, facility 19 had once held over six hundred star-ships. But the war had reduced that number to less than two hundred: Ship after ship had been deeded to the Confederation to pay the death taxes of monied officers. Now green "Available" lights glowed softly over most of the berths on level 9.
Oblivious to the green lights, L'Wrona moved quickly down the long empty duralloy corridor, pistol in hand, looking for berth 9-42-A. He found it after two turnings—one of only five red-lighted berths in that stretch of level 9. Standing before the entry, he pressed the access button.
"Access code, please," said a resonant, masculine voice.
"There is no code," said L'Wrona. "Wrong," said the voice. "Right," said L'Wrona. The door slid open. "Hello, H'Nar," said the voice.
"Hello, Dad," said the captain. He stepped onto the catwalk, the door sliding shut behind him. Below, nestled in its berth, lay a trim little O'Lan-class scout ship, the subdued lighting of the berth glinting dully along its silver hull.
To the casual observer, the ship would have seemed just another surplus scout, sold off after the A'Ran Police Action of a decade ago. And so it had been, until the previous Margrave of U'Tria, L'Wrona's late father, had gotten his hands on it.
"Green-light the door, would you, Dad?" asked the captain, turning to clamber down the access ladder to the ship. "Got
N'Trol's fingers around the haft. "Take it and go kill those guards. Or we'll do it ourselves and leave your bodies on the duraplast."
"You've persuaded me," he said, slipping off to the left, where the module stacks ended. Snapping shut the weather flap on his holster and slipping the knife blade up his sleeve, N'Trol stepped from behind the stacks and into the light, walking purposefully toward the boarding ramp and the two gray-uniformed sentries.
"Evening," he said as the guards brought their rifles up to order arms.
"Halt," said the corporal. "Who goes?"
N'Trol halted. "Commander N'Trol, Engineer, Implacable," he said, gambling that these two hadn't been told about the arrests. It wasn't likely, given Fleet's mania for security.
"Advance and be recognized," said the corporal.
N'Trol closed the distance between himself and the foot of the ramp, stopping an arm's length from the corporal. The sentry was young—a kid, really—almost old enough to shave. "Here to do some tinkering," said N'Trol easily.
The corporal frowned. "Sorry, sir. We've no orders to admit ..."
N'Trol sucker-kicked him, knee to the groin, then hit him on the chin with the knife pommel as the kid doubled over. The soldier folded silently, crumpling to the landing field.
The private tried to bring the big M32 around, but N'Trol grabbed the weapon's stock with one hand and pressed the knife blade against his throat with the other. "Drop it or die," he said. He'd no idea what he'd do if the other continued to struggle—fortunately, the trooper dropped the M32.
"Turn around," said the engineer.
As the private turned, N'Trol brought the pommel down behind the soldier's right ear. He collapsed as silently as the corporal.
"Well and mercifully done, Mr. N'Trol," A'Tir said as her corsairs charged across the landing field and up into the ship, Implacable's crew following. "You may board."
Last one in but for A'Tir, he'd stopped to look at the distant flames of the Tower and the circling firecraft, when two blaster shots sent him whirling, looking down to where A'Tir stood, holstering her blaster beside the dead sentries.
Gripping the safety rail in white-knuckled fury, N'Trol waited for A'Tir to reach him. If he'd been beside her when she fired, he knew he'd have broken her slim neck. "Why?" he demanded coldly when she appeared, his emotions under control.
"Why?" She smiled. "Why, because you wanted them to live, Engineer. So I wanted them dead. Now check your engines and prepare to lift ship, mister."
7
A hexagonal honeycomb of a building, facility 19 had once held over six hundred star-ships. But the war had reduced that number to less than two hundred: Ship after ship had been deeded to the Confederation to pay the death taxes of monied officers. Now green "Available" lights glowed softly over most of the berths on level 9.
Oblivious to the green lights, L'Wrona moved quickly down the long empty duralloy corridor, pistol in hand, looking for berth 9-42-A. He found it after two turnings—one of only five red-lighted berths in that stretch of level 9. Standing before the entry, he pressed the access button.
"Access code, please," said a resonant, masculine voice.
"There is no code," said L'Wrona. "Wrong," said the voice. "Right," said L'Wrona. The door slid open. "Hello, H'Nar," said the voice.
"Hello, Dad," said the captain. He stepped onto the catwalk, the door sliding shut behind him. Below, nestled in its berth, lay a trim little O'Lan-class scout ship, the subdued lighting of the berth glinting dully along its silver hull.
To the casual observer, the ship would have seemed just another surplus scout, sold off after the A'Ran Police Action of a decade ago. And so it had been, until the previous Margrave of U'Tria, L'Wrona's late father, had gotten his hands on it.
"Green-light the door, would you, Dad?" asked the captain, turning to clamber down the access ladder to the ship. "Got
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